Hand and Hand in Fair Verona
by dracosdramaqueen
Summary: A 'what if' based on Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.


_Hand and Hand in Fair Verona_

**Chapter One: The Masque**

"Nurse? Nurse!" The girlish voice of the Countess Paris rang through the silent manor. She stamped a slippered foot with impatience, even as the wheezing tones of her wizened nurse came drifting through her rooms. 'Nurse' she was called, for she had been the Countess's and now attended to her mistress' five children. Truthfully, Nurse was a confidante, foster-mother, grandma, and servant all in one.

Except to Tybalt.

Tybalt was the oldest, which set him apart automatically. But there was more to it than age. Tybalt was eight, and already he carried the air of a portly gentleman. He had dashing black hair and daring brown eyes that seemed destined to be ruled by heart ache. But he did not look like his father, the Count Paris. He looked like a Montague.

From birth, the Countess had taught her children that hating the Montagues was wrong. They were of Paris stock, not Capulet. Tessa, the most mild-mannered of the four, was quick to accept this. Her twin brother Adolfo mimicked her every move. Giancarlo and Lucia were much too young to hate. But true to his namesake, Tybalt fostered a deep loathing for the Montagues that his frail, eight-year-old frame did not quite understand. Perhaps it was the fear that a Montague had fathered him. Perhaps he was afraid his mother showed him so much more affection than his other siblings because his genes were not of Paris. Perhaps he would never know, for when he had asked his mother, her eyes had welled up with tears and she had forbade him to ever ask again.

The Countess was crying now, but it was the sharp tears of pain that leaked out of the corners of the eyes. Only a few glistened on the end of her eye lashes. She blinked them away, afraid they would smear her carefully applied eye- and face-paint.

DD "Harder Nurse. Pull harder! Pull, you useless, ungrateful, good-for-noth-" she was cut off with a gasp as the corset bit deeply into her ribs. The Countess managed to pant "that's better" before collapsing upon her bed. Nurse offered her dress to step into. Groaning, the Countess heaved herself off the canopied bed. She looked like a manikin, forced to thrust her arms and legs rigidly into the flowing scarlet gown by the lack of oxygen caused by the corset. Taking as deep a breath as she could, she winced as half her chest halted abruptly at the lacy fabric and the other half spilled over in the fashionable way. She waited until the nurse finished the lacings and then took small steps toward her extravagant mirror. It had beautiful roses curved into the sides of it. 'Why must everything I own be so _expensive?_' she thought, finally stopping at her view in the mirror. The countess was not pleased with what she saw, though Nurse burst out:

"Lands, mistress! You have never looked so beautiful. Oh, except for that one time, at the Pentecost feast? Two months after those wretched twins had been born, and already you--"

"Nurse." The Countess cut her off quickly, for the nurse had a tendency to prattle.

"You looked quite beautiful! Like a cherub, with your cheeks mighty rosy and your eyes a-twinklin'. Oh, mistress, it was a sight to remember! Oh, and then there was the time when--"

"Nurse!" said the Countess in a much louder tone. Her old servant's hearing was failing her, and the Countess did not wish to be late. The Nurse, oblivious, forged ahead. Rolling her eyes, the Countess averted her attention toward the floor length mirror.

She was beautiful, of course. Rippling, golden hair that would have fallen to her inhumanly skinny waist if it weren't for the modest plait she kept it in twined itself like a halo about her head. The dress was of the finest materials, settling about her modest figure with undeniable grace. But despite all the finery of details, it was her face that drew the most stares. She had fathomless eyes that continually sparkled, as if a thousand tears had given them a morose outlook on life. Tiny crows' feet rested upon the creases of her eyelids, which the Count said she deserved after five children. Clearing her mind of her husband, the Countess focused instead on her dress. It was a rich scarlet. The sleeves fell just below the elbows in ruffles. The neck was low and offered a generous view of her chest, neck, and shoulders. Stitched into the fabric were pearls great and small at the neckline, waistline, and hem. To top it off, she placed a mask upon her face that matched the dress perfectly, from the color to the minute pearls sewn on. At the sight of it, her heart gave a painful twinge. Nurse had finally stopped talking, and it was a melodious voice that shook the silence.

"Juliet, my darling, my love! Where is my most heavenly angel?" Affixing a practiced smile on her face, the Countess turned to greet her husband in the door frame.

The figure that greeted her was a pleasant, boyish one. He was fifteen years her senior, and it showed in the peppery sprinkling of his fair brown hair and the creases on his forehead. He was not tall, but extraordinarily lean, with sunken cheeks and sagging limbs. His face was quick to frown but quicker to smile. Right now a large grin alighted his features.

"You look splendid, my dear," he said. He offered a weak elbow to his wife as he strode to her. She took it with a delicate hand, reaching up to pull his mask (a feathered black and silver one, to match his clothes) down upon his face. A pealing laugh came from his half concealed mouth.

"Am I that unappealing, Juliet?" Startled, a genuine giggle escaped her mouth.

"Your visage is likely to spring upon me if I'm not careful to cage it, my dear."

"I suppose you think my features are beastly, my beauty."

"Let us say that a mask can never hide you fangs."

Paris swept Juliet down the silent hall, teasing her witty tongue with his own. He loved his wife more than anything; loved her despite her long somber silences and frequent weeping. Loved her despite her reluctance to return his love. Loved her despite the fact that Tybalt was not his son. He knew very well his eldest was not his own, but he treated him the same as any of his other four children. Paris suspected that Tybalt was probably Benvolio's, who was the closest Montague in age to Juliet. But it did not change his love for her.

As husband and wife walked along the narrow tapestried corridors, the silence shrunk. A slight buzz of merriment increased with every mahogany staircase. The sleeping quarters of the family were on the third and highest floor, and their destination was the pride of the Paris manor, a high-vaulted ball-room. The peach-colored walls were decorated with angels of all shapes and sizes, reaching up in a glorious chorus to meet triumphantly in the center of a domed ceiling. All contained within two elaborate double doors that now the master and his mistress stepped through.

The flurry of color and music that roared to greet them was deafening. The count rose his hands for silence. He was not a commanding man; it took a full five minutes to quiet the masses of guests.

"Friends!" there was a wild cheering as the boyish voice filled the room. Paris fought for control and gained it, but barely.

"Strangers!" again the masked ladies and gentlemen let out a raucous encore.

"Lend me your ears." (Cheer.) "We all would like to commence in the merrymaking of this lovely evening, so I shall be brief." (More cheers.) "This masque is in honor of my beautiful Countess's sixth child!" The name of Juliet and the potential names of the sixth heir of Paris were lost in the tumult of guests and the striking up of instruments anew. Juliet and Paris laughed at the reactions of their hundred odd guests. It was expected, being Verona's most beloved couple. The Count bowed formally to his wife and tugged her waist toward his without awaiting an answer. Her eyes crinkled behind her mask, merry and aching at the same time. The pair cut a path through the ballroom with their elegant waltz, finding time to honor each of their guests with a comment or two. The dance ended, and Juliet excused herself. She waved at her face with an eloquent fan emblazoned with the Capulet crest. Ushering the air in lazy circles around and around her masked façade, she peered over the lacy edge to the staircase that she and her husband had descended from.

"Oh _no_," she whispered, snapping her fan irately shut. "Not _again_."

Gathering her skirts as elegantly as she could manage with her trembling fingers, Juliet strode briskly through the dancing guests. Her demeanor was enough to keep the usual comments and questions of her health away. She managed to avoid contact or collision with any of the couples, and thus reached her destination intact.

"Gentlemen!" she hissed, keeping her voice low. "Now is _not _the time for fighting. Not at my party!" She thrust a gloved hand into the chest of one of the quarrelling men. "_If _you please!" Her voice was commanding and pleading at the same time, stressing the first word just enough to grasp their attention. Finally, the man in front of her stopped struggling. Juliet sighed.

"Fine. But only for you, Juliet," he said, glaring across her shoulders at the aged man behind. "Only for my _only_ _child_." Old Capulet's voice had a mocking quality that not many could comprehend. But Montague did. As did Juliet.

"You dare say anything-- how dare you-- he was innocent!" Juliet, who had been ready for this, took her turn at restraining Old Montague.

"Killing a man is quite innocent, of course!" Juliet's father said in a voice that was a little too loud.

"He was provoked! Tybalt provoked him! _Tybalt killed my son's best friend!_" Spittle flew from Lord Montague's lips and onto Juliet's mask. She flinched, but kept a firm hold on him.

"Romeo deserved what he got, Montague. As did Mercutio. Any man off the street could tell you that." Lord Capulet needed not raise his voice any more. Half the ball room had stopped to listen.

Montague would have responded with a sharp comment, but instead he gave a sharp yelp. Juliet's fingernails, although sheathed in her gloves, dug deeply into his shoulders. At his reaction, she released the lord with a quick apology. She spun to face her father.

"Does any man deserve death, my lord?" The use of his official title had a definite note of warning laced inside it. "Does any man deserve to be banished from his love?" The last three words had come out by mistake. What little could be seen of Juliet's face flushed the color of her mask. Luckily, both the lords were looking at each other, not at the small, determined countess set between them. Capulet spoke, eyes not glancing at his daughter.

"No. A man does not," he let the sentence die into a shocked silence. Then he added: "but a murderer is not a man, is he?"

Juliet barely escaped from between them as Lord Montague threw himself onto her father. The audience around them drew back, forming a circle around the battling noblemen. Juliet wrung her hands, begging them to stop. Suddenly, a voice broke through the yelps and screams.

"That's enough." As soon as they had started, the lords stopped. "Shame on you." It was Paris who had spoken, his usually uninspiring figure standing out and shining with command and respect. "Either leave the party or stop this quarrel. You will only be warned once, my lords." A normal wife would have swelled with pride. As it was, Juliet's emotions gave a half-hearted flutter. She let her gaze stray to Paris. His eyes were on her, begging her approval of his lordly act. She let a practiced smile adorn her face. Relief quickly replaced it as Montague and Capulet broke apart and drifted away, probably to find their wives. Paris waded through the now dancing guests toward her.

"You were wonderful, dear," said Juliet, allowing her husband a quick peck on the cheek.

"So were you. Though I must say, Juliet, things wouldn't be this way if you didn't invite Lord Montague to our parties. He's a nice enough fellow, but the feud is just too apparent."

"But the only way things will ever be better between the two families is if they learn to interact! Look at Tybalt!" A startled and hurt look came into Paris' eyes. Had Juliet just admitted that Tybalt was not his son? Juliet didn't notice, and plowed on. "He already hates the Montagues. Why? I have never taught him to do so, and you have never taught him to do so. Nurse has certainly never taught him to hate anything. And no Montague has ever done him wrong! He is only eight! Why does he hate?" Her slight frame shuddered. Tears began to leak out of her mask. She buried her face into her gloves as Paris pulled her close.

"Oh my dear, that is a question I fear we will never answer. But do not be afraid. I will have a talk with Tybalt tomorrow, alright?" Juliet answered only in a sob that made her whole body shake. Paris tried his best to console her, but she waved him a way, trying to regain her composure.

"No, no, I'm being silly. You go and amuse the guests, I'll freshen up. Go!" Casting one more look of concern toward his wife, Paris was swept away in a new rush of dancing couples. Juliet felt lost in the tide of merrymakers, a scarlet bird far from shore bobbing up and down on the lonely waters of the ocean. Shaking her head and producing a handkerchief, Juliet wove through the dancers and toward an escape. Taking this as an opportunity to check on her feuding father and his nemesis, the countess cast her gaze across the ballroom, searching for one of the Lords. It was then she saw him.


End file.
